


The Indomitable

by Liena67



Series: From the end a new beginning [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, POV Irene, POV Irene Adler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 13:41:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14286141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liena67/pseuds/Liena67
Summary: This oneshot was born as an idea for March 8th and I could only dedicate it to Irene. Here I wanted to show a side of Irene that we saw only for a few moments but that is part of her. Because the beauty of this character is just that has a thousand nuances and facets... just like Sherlock.





	The Indomitable

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last oneshot before my first long story.  
> Forgive any errors in style and translation but let me know where I should correct and if you like.  
> Enjoy the reading!

In Austria in August, not far from the Molltaler glacier in Carinthia, there are not many hotels or chalets used by tourists. Most of them prefers to reside in Flattach, a town where temperatures are more pleasant and less rigid, but that allows those who want to ski, to easily reach the nine kilometers of glacier slopes. Irene does not like crowded places and in large part does not like people, especially tourists laughing and too sociable. That's why she chose this isolated chalet, away from the city and immersed in the first snows of the glacier. Here, apart from her, there are few true ski enthusiasts, the kind of people who prefer solitary cross-country skiing or off-piste, instead of the classic amateur crowded slopes. But she does not like skiing, she simply loves the white of the snow around her, the warmth of the reading room fireplace and the pleasant silence during the day, when the few guests of this chalet are out exploring the mountains.

Sitting comfortably on a chair, legs folded on one armrest and backs on the other, Irene at this moment savors that part of herself that rarely she lets emerge and that even more rarely allows herself to live. The hair is loose on the shoulders, the face just barely made up, no seductive dress or high heels but just a simple white sweater, pants and flat shoes. On her legs she holds a book that has almost finished and in one hand a cup of hot and strong black tea.

She sighs deeply when she arrives at the last chapters and for a moment she imagines how hard a woman's life could be in 1908, when the terrible events, described in the book she read, happened, and which led to the horrible death of 129 women. It is said that it was that terrible event that gave birth to the women's movement and then led to declare the Women's Day on March 8th. Not that her life has ever been easy, to tell the truth. She too had to fight with her teeth and with all her strength not to succumb in her life. She does not remember well when and why it happened, but at some point in her difficult childhood, she decided that nothing and nobody would ever have control of her life, except herself. Becoming The Woman, The Dominatrix, was a fun way to use that particular intuition that allows her to understand in an instant what people like, their deepest desires. Knowing and using them to establish her control and her power was the path that allowed her to save herself and to become unique, unconventional, unreachable by anyone, at least until the moment she met his eyes.

Irene sighs, rising from her chair, puts her cup on the low table nearby and goes to the library where she puts the book that she has finished. With one hand she touches the other volumes, looking for something else to read, and the memory inevitably brings her back to that evening at 221B of Baker Street, when she made the same gestures and then took an edition of the Taming of the Shrew. Sherlock was sat in his chair, holding his violin that occasionally pinched, but with his mind he had been locked in his mental palace for at least half an hour. John was gone, the fireplace was on and she had decided to read something. She does not even know why she chose that book. Perhaps in some ways she identified herself in this woman, who rebelled against the standards of the age, refusing any convention until she met someone who did not want to change her at all. Actually the protagonist has never been tamed but only understood by an equally unconventional and intelligent mind like hers. Irene that evening reread the whole opera almost in one breath and after finishing it, she put the book at her feet. It had been almost two hours and Sherlock was still there in his palace. Looking at him at that moment was as fascinating as watching him in his hyperactivity. And at that moment she was Irene, the real and deepest Irene, without makeup or high shoes or seductive clothes, only his dressing gown and her hair loose on her shoulders. Exactly as it is today, surrounded by snow in this isolated chalet.

Irene returns to her chair without taking any books and sighing resets herself in the position before, takes the cup of tea again and observes the fire in the fireplace. The owners' cat, a very sociable Persian, rubs itself near her feet, dangling from the armrest, and then leaps into her lap, crouching beneath her caresses, as usual for the last days. Irene smiles and caresses the cat, remembering the last time she saw Sherlock, that intense long and languid kiss in the rain, his eyes full of desire and fear at the same time.

Her mind comes back again and she recalls the first time she had heard of Sherlock Holmes, the big detective with a funny hat. She had begun to follow all his cases, terribly intrigued by the genius of this man, so clearly not inclined to social conventions. Until that momento she had never felt a real desire for men, but Sherlock is not a man like everyone else, she had understood it before he met him. When Jim Moriarty proposed to approach him, to get the key to that code stored on her phone, a part of herself had intimately enjoyed the opportunity to meet him. This is why she is not repentant of what she has done, even if she has lost everything she had, even if she risked her life, all that counts for nothing, has not counted anything more in the moment in which she crossed her gaze with that of him and finally saw Irene in those eyes.

It did not even know how long it passed, while the mind wandered in memories and in her own thoughts. The empty cup of tea is placed on the table, the cat continues to purr under her caresses. Nothing seems to disturb this pleasant and rare peace that she is hearing, until her phone makes a sound, warning it of the arrival of a message. Her heart starts beating fast. Only Sherlock knows this phone number. That's what he gave her when he rescued her from the terrorists in Karachi, a number and a phone that nobody could track, except from him. The cat feels her sudden tension and descends from her legs moving away. Irene pulls her legs down from the armrest and, still sitting in the armchair, reaches for one hand to pick up the phone and to read the message. It is rare, indeed perhaps it is almost never happened until another time, that Sherlock sends her a message, if not in response to one of her own. Almost holding her breath, Irene reads the message.

**Sherlock:** You know where to find me. S.H.

Synthetic as always and without turns of words. She knows him all too well now, not to understand what he means, and she smiles for a moment for his own way with which he has decided to tell her that he is ready. Definitely a statement to Sherlock. Any other woman would find him arrogant, indelicate, perhaps they would not even understand him. Instead she finds this message incredibly sexy and romantic, in its own way. But after the first smile, suddenly panic makes her eyes widen. Now they do not play anymore. Now she knows that the control she has had so far, she can lose it in a moment. Because despite the apparent defeat, in this game between them, it was always all her choice. She knew that Sherlock could find out the password of her phone, as if inside of her she knew, or at least hoped, that Sherlock would come to save her at Karachi. But from this moment everything could be different. They do not play anymore and they can not go back anymore. For the first time in her life, Irene feels terror making her way in her and with a quick gesture closes the phone, opens it and disconnects the battery by removing the sim. Then she resets herself in the first position, with her legs on the armrest, and returns to look at the fire in the fireplace, that is slowly going out.

She needs to reflect and can do it only if she puts a real separation between them. Because any road she should decide to start from now on, she must be sure that, as always, it is only and uniquely her choice.


End file.
